


A Light That Never Goes Out

by coloursflyaway



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit RPF
Genre: About twenty different ways of killing people, Death, M/M, Reincarnation, Soulmates, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 23:59:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coloursflyaway/pseuds/coloursflyaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For this prompt:<br/>Thorin and Kili are soulmates but every time they're reincarnated they die prematurely and without realising it. Middle-Earth, 19th century, WWI, 21th century, they never escape the cycle until one day they do.<br/>Because they finally see each other as they're supposed to do.<br/>Give me the ultimate star-crossed lovers in a stories that spans time and space until they break the cycle</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Light That Never Goes Out

**Author's Note:**

> Orignal prompt here: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/3651.html?thread=7688771#t7688771
> 
> For Jodi, who is my muse when it comes to violence and murder and all the other fun things.

(0)

In a dream, in a faraway world, they are uncle and nephew, and when Thorin looks down on the little figure pulling his brother’s braids, his heart flows over with joy, bursts and floods him with feelings he never thought he was capable of having. They’re tender and sweet and when the other turns around, his face muddy and his hair mussed, he can see the same feelings reflected back at him from another’s eyes.  
Small fingers untangle themselves from golden strands and little feet carry him over in even tinier steps; when Kíli has crossed the distance, Thorin has already knelt down, arms held out to pull the dwarfling against his chest. There is a heart beating next to his in the same rhythm but in another chest, and thin arms wind themselves around his neck.

He has found someone he has thought lost in the dragon’s fire, the One Mahal has created for him, and involuntarily, his arms tighten around Kíli, trying to protect him from all that is bad and rotten in this world; standing up again he makes his way to the kitchen, where Dis is waiting, little Fíli trailing behind them and complaining about having to walk when his brother is being carried. Kíli just laughs, buries his face in the crook of Thorin’s neck, little hands grasping at the sliver clasps in his hair.  
An unusual smile spreads across Thorin’s face, stretches his lips wide and once again, he vows that one day, he will have Kíli sitting next to him on Erebor’s throne, eyes as bright as the Arkenstone and hair as soft as silk, and that he will share with him his riches, his power, and above all else, his heart.

 

(1)

He only sees him for a moment, a fleeting glance between bodies before they move in, drown and cut and kill him; the only thing he remembers is that the other is made out of ash and sand, embers and earth, but shines like starlight.  
When they leave, blood is covering the ground, he can see it, smell it, taste it on his tongue when he breathes in, but he doesn’t rush over to see the other, for he knows that the mere sight of him now, broken, the starlight dimmed, would break him too.

 

(2)

If he raises his head, he can see them, so far away that they are just small dots on the horizon, gleaming red and golden in the sunlight. They’re beautiful, and his heart soars for a moment, even if sand is stinging in his eyes, his muscles are aching, even with the air thick and dry and smothering them with its heat. His mouth and throat are parched to the point where he feels dizzy, has almost forgotten what water tastes like, but he doesn’t mind it much.  
There was a time when he did, when he still couldn’t understand what he was sent to this Earth for, when the whips cutting into his flesh still felt unfair, but it is long since gone.

He knows who he is now, he knows what his purpose is. They are building a palace here, not a grave, but a temple, which will hold the flesh and bones of their king, their lord, their god, long after he has gone.  
Others still moan, still complain, but it’s a holy cause so he does not say a word, just sets one foot after another, takes a step then a step, then a step until they have dragged another stone to its proper place.  In that moment, when they fit their burden into the space left for it, he feels content, maybe even happy, forgets for a moment that with every minute which passes, his body grows weaker.

Someone next to him falls, another man, but he does not even look up, because this happens every day, because the other doesn’t matter, because he doesn’t matter either. One of the overseers comes rushing, screaming and whipping until the other is bathed in blood and whimpering softly, tries to get up and fails.  
They are not allowed to stop, so they don’t, walk on with the whip cracking over their heads and try to ignore the sound of flesh tearing, of bones breaking, blood spilling.

The rope is cutting into his hands, his shoulders twice as much now, his legs are shaking and his breath coming too quickly, but it’s only for a few, short metres before it gets a little better, the weight a little easier to bear.  
He turns his head slowly, takes another step and almost falls down, because there is another man next to him, or rather, a boy, who has taken the dead one’s place.

On the first glance, the boy looks like all the others, like himself, dark skin and scars on his back, his lips chapped, but his eyes are fixed on him with an intensity he has never felt before, a fire inside them burning so brightly it puts the sun to shame.  
He’s smitten and they have not exchanged a word, he’s in love and everything else fades, falls, melts, because nothing can matter now, nothing except for this person the gods must have created for him. So when he takes his next breath, he takes it with him, when he blinks the next time, he does it with him, when he takes his next step, he takes it with him, but when his foot catches on a large stone, his leg gives out and sends him tumbling to the ground, he does it alone.

There is a dry, sharp sound, a bone snapping, and it takes a moment until he realises that it’s his bone, his leg, and with the realisation comes the pain. It's sharp and feels like his leg is splintering, and without trying, he knows he won’t be able to get up again.  
He does so anyway, does so because he needs to keep up, because he can’t lose what he just found, but the parts of his bone grind together, collide and grate, and he falls down with a cry and tears in his eyes.

The whip comes down on the others, the ones still standing, and they do not dare to stop, just trudge on, push and pull, and he tries to escape, to make it out of harm’s way, but his arms are useless, his fingers digging into the sand and pulling, pulling, pulling, but still his body hardly moves. There is a moment where he feels panic wash over him that is too strong to comprehend, a wave of fear which drowns his entire being. He cannot breathe, cannot think, cannot _see_ , but then the feeling passes, almost as quickly as it came, and leaves behind a strangely empty calmness.  
Death will claim him one way or another, either through another slave’s feet or a whip or the sun, which is beating down on him, he has always known that and it hardly makes a difference; and if still it feels like ripping his heart out, because he will lose his life, just as he has found something, someone to live for, it’s for the best, because he has never felt anything this intense and beautiful and painful before.

And with the sun still beating down on him, merciless and bright, he goes still and waits for the gods to take him away; and for one last time, he looks at the other, finds him staring back, the fire in his eyes drowning in tears.

 

(3)

He dies having seen forty-eight winters, older than any man he has ever known, and his children and grandchildren are gathered around his bed, the air filled with his youngest daughter’s quiet sobs. They love him, and it is hard to believe since he hardly loves himself, fully aware of his slights and wrongs and misgivings.  
They loved their mother, grandmother better and he cannot blame them, for, when still alive, his wife was sweet and caring, a hard-working woman with a heart overflowing with love, and yet he has never returned her affections, his heart always belonging to a man he has never met but always looked for.

It’s him he sees when his eyes close, a man with a thousand different souls and a thousand different faces, each and every one familiar, because he has seen him in dreams, in those few fleeting moments before he is fully awake, smiling and lying next to him, a hand held out for him to take. And for the first time, he does, feels warm skin and calloused fingertips, sees a pair of lips curl into a smile, and the last air leaving his body does not feel like dying, but like coming home.

 

(4)

They bring her a soldier, whose armour is slick with blood, who is dying and screaming and thrashing around; it takes three men to hold him down so she can look at his wounds.  
There are many, too many, and she does not need to tell the others that there is no hope, that there never was. She does so nonetheless, and while two men say nothing, the third cries out in anguish, calls the dying one brother and buries his face in the other’s curls. Words pass from lips to ear without her hearing but then the man looks up, flaxen hair wild and blue eyes shining bright with madness, with grief, and she cannot look away.

He vows revenge, and she only sees the curve of his lips, hears the beat of his heart, feels how his breath stirs her clothes, thought it should be far too weak for this feat.  
He vows revenge and gets up, his hands stained with his brother’s blood, who has died without her noticing and only sees her when he turns around outside, their eyes locking.  
And he knows, he feels, and that is enough for now.  
She will find him again after the battle and will know his name, his past, his future.

(They bring him to her with the battle still raging on outside, a hole in his chest she cannot stitch and the light in his eyes waning. There is no hope, so she does not try, just spills bitter tears and watches him go where she can’t follow.)

 

(5)

He never sees her when she is still alive, his beautiful girl with her tiny fingers clenched to a fist, her cheeks and chest smeared with his wife’s lifeblood and her eyes closed, her mouth not once opening to let him hear her voice, and yet he can hear it resonating in his chest as he presses her against it, holding his sweet, stillborn daughter and feeling all the light and joy in the world vanish and dim and die. Never before has he loved anything, anyone as much as he loves this child, this small, lifeless body, not even his wife, who is lying on the bed in front of him, just as dead as his little angel; never before has he felt anything of this intensity, the affection and the loss both choking him, strangling him and he knows that every breath he takes without his daughter is one he is stealing from her, from the undying devotion he has for her.  
He sets her down gently, leaves her just long enough to fetch the piece of fabric meant to keep her warm, then wraps her up in it tightly. The midwife is looking at him with pity in her eyes and he ignores her for another few moments, which he spends looking at his child’s face, then mutters, “I will show her the sky.”

Maybe the midwife answers, maybe she doesn’t, but it doesn’t matter, because he takes his daughter outside, only raises his eyes from her calm features, which make her look as if she was sleeping, once to find out which way to go.  
And he shows her the sky, shows her the sun and shows her the ocean too, and clings to her closely as its waves take them home.

 

(6)

They bring him out in chains while she isn’t watching, her eyes on her husband, whose eyes are on a serving girl. She doesn’t mind it, not really, because she has taken slaves to her bed as well, but she still looks away as the girl has refilled her cup of wine.  
The whole coliseum is filled with people, hardly a seat left, and she is not surprised – there hasn’t been a fight for far too long, weeks, and she, like all the others, is craving to see someone else’s blood spilled on the hot sand.

Her eyes wander down to the arena, over the ranks to the fighters and come to rest on one of them as the entire world around her grinds to a halt. He’s not handsome, too scarred, too raw for that, his tanned skin shining with sweat and oil and grime, but it doesn’t matter, she is captivated.

Next to her, her husband says something, but she cannot answer, because concentrating on words seems to be utterly irrelevant right now, so she just nods, keeps her eyes on him as they take off his collar and chains. It's love which sprouts from her heart, which she has thought lost for years now, tender, sweet affection which curls around her mind in delicate tendrils, lights up her eyes and soothes the worries on her brow for a moment, before they return tenfold.  
Because somehow it’s only now that she starts to fear, or starts to realise that she is fearing for him, because one of the men down there is going to die, that is the way of things, because the people want blood and they will get it. She, who hasn’t prayed for a decade, sends a plea to the gods, begs them for his life, but still cannot turn her eyes away.

Her gladiator is armed with a net and a spear, the other with sword and shield, and the moment the sign is given, they are circling each other, graceful and still deadly. The whole coliseum is holding its breath; she can feel the stones underneath her freezing in suspense, the sun stand still to watch her gladiator surge forwards all of a sudden, thrusting his spear forwards with a movement so powerful it seems to shake the air itself. The other just barely avoids the sharp tip, tries to counter the attack with a strike of his sword but misses, giving her gladiator time to raise his arm, ready to throw his net and captivate his opponent.

And their eyes meet, over the heads of thousand bloodthirsty observers, who are holding their breaths, over a thousand beating hearts, a thousand watching eyes, and it feels as if Jupiter has struck her with lightning, Venus with love, and she is his before she can blink.  
He is hers too, she knows it as well as she knows her own heart, and a life flashes behind her eyes, a life where she buys him free, where she keeps him close, where she will give him all she could never give the man she has married. Her lips curl up into a smile, tentative at first, but growing brighter by the second, and although it is hard to make out his face from this far a distance, she is sure that there is one on his face to match, while the whole world revolves only around them and no one else.

But it takes too long, just a moment, a second too long, and the next thing she sees is her gladiator keels over, his hands clutching at the sword now protruding from his stomach. It takes a few moments for her to understand, because the reality of it is too painful, too harsh ( _I’ve just found him, just found him, just found_ him echoes in her head), but when she finally does, she can feel the bile rising in her throat, her whole body shaking as if trying not to shut down on itself. He is dying and she wants to scream, but can’t, can only watch as he falls to his knees; but even now his eyes are still fixed on her.

There will be no thumb pointed up, down, and maybe that could mean that the prefect will have his head, but the thought brings no solace to her shattering mind, because it doesn’t matter, nothing matters when he doesn’t walk this Earth anymore. She doesn’t allow herself to blink anymore, not being able to bear the thought of losing a moment with him she could have had, and tears cloud her vision, but she doesn’t wipe them away. And she watches him die, his head raised high and the sand beneath him stained with blood and she can feel how a small part of her goes with him to find Pluto in the underworld.

Her husband reaches out to touch her arm, but she does not feel it.

 

(7)

If he really concentrates, he can still remember his wife’s face, his son’s, but apart from that, two little memories in what should be a thousand, everything is drowned in pain. It’s his wrists and his feet which hurt because of the nails they hammered through them, it’s his shoulders which ache so much he is afraid that his arms will be ripped from his torso by the mere weight of his own body, it’s his thighs which burn with the constant strain of pushing himself up just to exhale some of the air flooding his lungs. The skin of his lips is torn open, but he doesn’t feel it anymore, feels the burn of thirst on his swollen tongue instead, feels the splinters ingrained in the soles of his feet, his back and shoulders, feels the raw wounds where the wood is grating his flesh away.  
It's torture and he knows that he should just let himself fall down, suffocate quickly before prolonging the process, but whenever he tries, lets himself fall down, it only ever takes a couple of moments until it he is struggling to push himself up again, his instincts taking over.

Nonetheless he tries again, closes his eyes to try and conjure up the picture of his wife and son one last time before he lets himself fall. It feels like ripping his body in two, his dislocated shoulders and elbows and wrists screaming in pain, more and more splinters burying themselves in his flesh and his lips parting without him ordering them to, to let more and more air flood his lungs (before they raised his cross up next to the others, he was afraid of suffocating, imagining the burning need for air and the light-headedness, but what happens is the opposite, he cannot stop breathing in, breathes and breathes and breathes until he feels like another breath will make him burst at the seams).  
It doesn’t take long until he can feel his muscles tensing further, his body fighting his mind to push himself up again, because it still hasn’t realised that this fight has been lost so long ago.

He holds on for another few moments, enough to make the edges of his vision blur, his eyes water, but finally his instincts win and his cramping thighs push him up again, his feet pressed flat against the wood so he can feel each splinter stuck in his soles. For a moment, just one precious moments, he can raise himself high enough to relieve enough pressure on his chest so he can finally breathe out a mouthful of air before his muscles give out and make him fall down once more, the violent tug on his arms and shoulders making him groan in pain, his eyes slipping shut.

He might have fallen unconscious for a moment, he isn’t sure of that, but when he pries his eyes open again, there is a man in front of him, the helmet on his head and the armour covering his body giving away that he is another soldier. There have been some of them here before, jeering and mocking, but the other just stands there, his head tilted so their eyes can meet, and although there is a too-long difference between them for him to make out the other’s face, he knows there are tears in the soldier’s eyes.  
He’s still in pain, so much pain that he can hardly think straight, and yet it seems easier to bear when he is looking at this stranger who he still seems to know inside out, as if his nerves were halting their fire to give him enough time to look at the man in front of him.

A feeling he has never felt before starts blossoming in his chest (unlike the soft, sweet affection he feels for his wife, the tender protectiveness he has come to associate with his son), warm and still fierce, so strong it would take his breath away in any other situation. It creeps from his heart and lungs up his neck, as if travelling through his veins until it has filled his head with as much calmness as is possibly while still suffering through this agony, seeps into his arms and legs, soothes the sting of his muscles just enough for him not to feel overwhelmed with pain for the moment. It’s love, and he cannot explain it, nor wants to, because it’s love he knows the other one feels too.

So for one last time, he takes together whatever strength he has left and digs his heels more firmly into the wood, ignores the strain in his thighs, the pieces of skin the rough wood is tearing off his back as he pushes himself upwards enough so he can exhale, just for a moment, the breath leaving his lips carrying a single word, which holds all the hope and the defeat and the love in the world.  
“ _Please_.”

He knows how much he is asking (because this can mean death for the other one too, will mean death), but he cannot stop himself, and although it takes a moment until the soldier understands, he does and that is all that matters. There is a tiny nod, and the man steps closer, then closer, then closer, until he can see his face. The soldier is tanned and handsome, barely even an adult, but he cannot spare a thought for beauty now when he is drowning in pain.

A moment passes, and then there is a hand on his ankle, the last touch he will ever feel, and it feels like the most important one, too, forging a connection which feels as if it has existed for a thousand years already. And he still feels it between them still, pulsing when the other raises his spear, a shining, bright bond between them, which stretches between them and makes him shed a tear and then another for all the moments they could not spend together.  
“Forgive me”, the soldier and although he cannot speak, he is certain that the other one knows he is forgiven.

And it doesn’t take longer than the breath he cannot take would and then the spear is thrust upwards. He expects it to go through his chest, but the other is more merciful than that even, because the tip of the spear pierces through the skin of his neck, the tissue and separates sinews from another, cuts through his wind pipe and for a moment nothing happens, then blood starts gushing out of the sound, hot and thick as it spills down his chest, the spear, over his saviour’s hand, tints it red.

The other man’s face is the last thing he sees, his eyes wide and his lips pale, tears running down his cheeks, and he wants nothing more than to kiss them away.

 

(8)

It’s one of the first sunny days after weeks of rain and the air is sweet and fragrant, rich with the smell of flowers and ripening fruit; she has dragged her sister out and they are lounging outside of their hut, a few more precious moments before their mother wakes and tells them to get water, food, a thousand other things. Not many people are up yet (or maybe, they are up already, off somewhere to do something), so it’s quiet except for a breeze stirring the leaves and a few birds greeting the new day, just like she is doing, but with sound and song and not a smile so wide it makes the corners of her mouth ache in the best way. She’s just about to lean back, feel the warm light tickle her neck and chest, when the birds are disturbed, someone making their way through the thicket with sure, heavy steps.

It doesn’t take two moments until she can see slivers of muscular legs through the leaves, a broad chest, and soon afterwards, the branches of a smaller tree not far from her are pushed aside and one of the men steps into the clearing (her sister makes a small noise in the back of her throat; she is three years older and looks at men with an expression she cannot understand).  
He is carrying something she cannot quite make out, throws it, and there is a sting in her chest, deep within, deeper than anything she has ever felt, when it hits the floor. It's a human head, eyes wide and mouth twisted into some bizarre imitation of a scream, blood still seeping from the large wound where the man’s axe has separated head from body.

She doesn’t know the man, and yet the next thing she knows is that she is rushing over to the head, falling down to her knees and cradling the severed head to her chest as if it was a child, holding it close and smoothing the hair from the cold forehead. There is blood staining her clothes and tears rolling down her cheeks –faintly, she is aware that she is crying, weeping – but it does not matter, because although she does not know what his name was, what his favourite time of the year, the sound of his voice, it feels as if she has seen him in a thousand dreams before, has met him in a thousand lives.

(They drag her away only a few moments later, pry her beloved one’s head from her shaking arms, but her tears never stop, mingling with the blood and painting red dots on the dry sand, red smudges on her mother’s cheek.)

 

(9)

She never sees him, a simple servant not having time to spend at public executions, but she hears him, his voice sounding hollow and his screams slurred together from inside the metal bull, and she knows it’s because he has no tongue to form them to pretty words and sweet sounds anymore. But although there is no meaning in them except for pain and fear and the deafening edge of resignation, she can almost hear him sing to her in the back of her mind, songs of love and affection and sweetness, and she stops for a moment, looks over her shoulder to see the flames rising higher, the metal construction in the middle of them thrashing around as the man she seems to know slowly dies.  
Her heart aches, burns as if it was locked up with him, and tears wet her cheeks, stain her dress; something in her is dying, and she cannot name it but knows she will miss it still.

And she should go on, fetch the silken ribbons her mistress has sent her for, but her feet do not obey her, keep her fixed until his screams have finally grow quiet until they are nothing but a whisper, the metal bull stopping its rocking motions, and she can feel him die, and can feel her heart die with him.

 

(10)

The sky is blue when he wakes, and there is a girl’s face above him, dark-skinned and with eyes that look familiar and burn away the memory of a ship, of friends, of a storm, of pain and cold water within a second.  
For a moment, he wonders if he knows her name.

Then more eyes appear, all the same colour, the same shape, but they don’t shine as bright, as gentle, and he keeps his gaze on her when they carry his broken body back to their village, which should be made of gold, like in his dreams, like in other people’s stories, but is just mud and clay and straw. She stays at his side and he wonders if she feels this too, this warmth, this push, this pull, which seems to bring them closer and closer still, which, if he could, would make him fall down to his knees in front of her and bury his face in her side, seeking comfort like a child from a mother.

At one point, he tries to ask, but the words he knows are not good enough and he wonders if hers would be, if he could find expressions that fit in these guttural, sharp and yet sweet sounds he cannot understand. If she could, he doesn’t know either, because she does not speak, only listens.

He only hears her voice once, surrounded by others, forsaken by God, while a knife tries to split his head from his body. Wait, she says; or stop, or please, he doesn’t know, but still dies with a smile and thinks of her face.

 

(11)

It’s been twelve days since their house has been locked, five since his little sister has died, and two since he found the first buboes on himself, small lumps on his sides which hurt when he presses his fingers against them. He does it still, mostly because there is hardly anything else to do, his mother in bed, crying while clutching his sister’s favourite doll, and his father trying to console her; all games he knows he has played, has hidden in all the nooks and crannies of their house, even in those which he is not allowed to go into usually, the kitchen and the chamber their maid and cook used to sleep in, before the Black Death took them.  
Why they call it Black Death, he doesn’t know, because no matter how often he walks to the only mirror in the house, pulls up his shirt and looks at the buboes, they are not black, not even dark.

But most time, he spends in front of the window, one of the few which have not been nailed shut, watching people walk through the street and look at their house in fear or shock or, sometimes, even interest; sees ladies in colourful dresses clutching to their husband’s arm, servant boys carrying home a week’s worth of shopping. Right now, though, the street is as boring as could be, full of people rushing through it to make it home before the curfew, pushing at each other and he is pushing at his buboes again, not hard, just enough to make them sting a little.

Or at least that what he wants to do, but then a girl’s head appears, a maid or a servant, with ginger hair that passes her shoulders in long curls, the ribbons of her bonnet flying behind her as she hurries through the street. There is something special about her, something which makes him want to run down and through the door and to the street and in her arms (because she would hold them outstretched to embrace him, he knows it, she would hug him and stroke his hair and tell him everything would be alright, and when the angels come to take him, she would sit at his side and greet them with him), but he cannot, because the door is shut and locked, so instead he presses himself against the window until his breath paints it milky white.  
He needs to touch her, to at least hear her voice, but she passes without even looking up, and he stays pressed against the glass until the night has fallen, his little heart beating, and beating, and only for her.

(It takes two more days until the fever sets in, his father leaving his mother on the bed and tending to him, not once mentioning that, hidden underneath his shirt, there are buboes on his thighs, which make every step a torture. He cannot do anything but hold his hand, bring him water and milk, and watch him die, but he does all of it; and when the angels come, he sees a smile blossoming on his little boy’s lips, and smiles back, not knowing that his son has only eyes for his guardians, because every angel wears her face.)

 

(12)

She is going to die right here, called a witch because of a diseased goat and an ill-chosen word, but she is past regret and anger, past hope, and even past pain, although it is hard to believe, especially when she looks down, sees the flesh of her thighs bubbling and boiling, her skin breaking open and oozing blood and molten tissue, bone shining through at some parts.  
Her lips are clamped shut tightly, not wanting to breathe in the flames which are rising higher and higher, because while her legs and arms are numb she can still feel her swollen tongue, her chapped lips.

A sudden gust of wind causes the flames to lick on yet unmarred skin, a sharp, burning jolt of pain shooting through her which makes her cry out, her eyes squeezing shut as she can feel her nerve endings be burnt to cinder. Without thinking, she takes a deep breath, trying to calm the pain, but only doubling it, the inside of her mouth, her tongue all screaming in agony.  
A scream escapes her, and if she could, she would clench her fingers, but if they are still attached to the rest of her body, she cannot feel them, just like she cannot feel her toes, her ankles, her knees, even her thoughts and vision slowly slipping away, one becoming hazy, one clouded with tears both shed and unshed.

She does not mind that, though, her fading mind making her feel more at peace, her dimming eyes making the faces of the spectators blur, a crowd of people who have forsaken her, cast her aside and now watch her burn. Her airways are rapidly swelling, irritated by the heat and the flames she has sucked in, making it almost impossible to breathe, her lungs aching, aching, aching… there is almost relief in the realisation that her time on Earth is ending, and she sends a quick prayer to God, to forgive her sins and cleanse her immortal soul, the takes a last look at the crowd, preparing to let herself go.

But her eyes catch a glimpse of a face, distorted by the hot air rising from the flames, by her own fading vision, but a face both familiar and strange. It belongs to a woman, a few years older than she is herself, a pale face framed by blonde hair, her mouth opened, and although she has never seen the other before, she knows that she is crying,  
It’s an instant connection, and with her head feeling light with the lack of air, she knows that the other woman can feel her pain too, the too-hot air around her, the lack of breath, the swollen tongue, and she wants to comfort her, take her in her arms and tell her it is fine, now that they’ve found each other, she is fine, but her hands are still bound and her  feet charred.  
So instead, she does the only thing she can to ease the other’s suffering, leans down until she can feel her hair catching fire, sizzling up around her head, and opens her mouth, breathes in as much as she can.  
There is pain, flaring, agonising pain, but it doesn’t last more than a few moments, her body not even allowing her to stand up again, too weak, too tortured, but her eyes find the woman’s, hidden behind red flames and grey smoke, and when the darkness swallows her, she has just enough time to think, _next time, maybe next time, please_.

 

(13)

They lower his body into the ground, her son, and she wants to scream, to thrash around and beg God to take her too, but she doesn’t, just stands there and lets tear after tear fall to the ground. In front of her inner eye, she can see him, her little boy, laid out in the poorly-made coffin, decked in flowers and the thousand kisses she has placed on his brow, his cold cheeks, his brown hair neatly parted and his blue eyes closed.

The image makes her clench her fists, to prevent herself from throwing herself into the shallow grave as well, to beg the priest to let her follow the one she loves most. They call it an accident, an unfortunate mistake, but she knows it cannot be just that; this is a punishment from God himself, who makes her boy pay for her misgivings, both past and future ones, for nothing done by human hand could ever hurt so much.  
Her husband touches her arm, a gesture meant to comfort, but she hardly ever feels it, her attention fixed on the small coffin which is slowly disappearing from her sight and taking her son with it. It is unfair, to take his life and spare hers, and she wants to cry out, to curse the world and every person walking it, but she does not dare to, instead just wishes she was in his place, and digs her nails into her palms until she can feel slick blood seeping between her fingers, but does not care for it, lets the drops form and fall down to join her son’s, where they belong, where she belongs too.

 

(14)

There is a platform in the middle of the square, built out of roughly-hewn planks and rusty nails, a guillotine in the middle and hundreds of people around them, gathered here to watch them die. Most of the people who share his fate, he has never met before, a group of frightened children and weary elders, a few men and women around his age mixed between them, tear tracks on their cheeks and fear in their eyes, but they don’t matter, their worries and hopes are irrelevant, because there is a woman only a metre away from him, who has golden hair and eyes as blue and wide as the sea.  
He loves her, and only has known her for the matter of a few days, ever since they pushed her into the cell next to him, only a few bars between them to keep them apart. She loves him too, and their fingers are locked, her touch the only thing which keeps him grounded.

The judge, or the hangman, or whoever is talking, pronounces their sentence, which is death and which is no surprise, and yet his heart sizes up painfully, his fingers clenching around hers, because it’s not himself he is scared for, but her, even if he knows that they’ll be together again in heaven.  
She squeezes back, turns so she can look at him with beautiful, sad, clear eyes, and he doesn’t look away again, not even when he hears a man next to him start to sob, his prayers, the whoosh of the blade coming down, the sound of the man’s head falling down.  
She’s beautiful and she is his, as he is hers, for God made them for each other, two halves which can never be whole without each other.

Another two die, and then there is a hand on his arm, a cruel laugh as the man discovers their linked fingers, and a tear rolling down his lover’s pale cheek which he cannot kiss away.  
“Wait for me”, she whispers, and he can hardly make out her words, but can read them on her lips, hear them in his heart, and when they drag him away, and their fingers part for the last time, he closes his eyes and follows, making sure that her image is the last thing his eyes will ever see.

 

(15)

Their eyes meet over their drawn muskets, brown and blue, and for a moment, he doesn’t notice the other’s uniform has the wrong colour. There is something about the soldier which draws him in, makes him forget about the war raging on around them, about the shots fired and the screams of dying men, soothes the fear which has been raging in his chest for weeks now. He should shoot, the other one should shoot too, but neither of them does, because although he has killed thirty-seven men since they brought him here, he cannot bear the thought of the other man dying.

He starts loosening his grip, hesitantly, needing to touch the stranger, hear him talk and breathe and live, but before he has reached out, a shot is fired he doesn’t hear, and a blood red stain blossoms on the other’s red coat. It’s impossible, but he feels the other’s pain, the sharp sting of the bullet when it pierces through skin and tissue, scrapes over a rib and hits the man’s lung, causes it to collapse in on itself. There is pain and fear written all over the other’s face, momentarily trying and failing to drown the love shining from his eyes.  
His lips open to speak, but no words come out, just a high, faint sound, which still seems to predominate all the other noises, but dies only a moment afterwards, a second shot being fired and a second bullet forcing its way through the strangers beloved chest, his barely beating heart.

Their eyes are still locked, but the other’s are dimming rapidly as the life leaves him with every breath he cannot draw anymore, every drop of blood; what fear he cannot find in the stranger’s face, he makes up with his own, fear of watching him die, fear of dying, fear of being left alone. If he could, he would drop his weapon and hold the other, wipe the blood, which is spilling from his lips now, away, but he is frozen in his place, unable to do more than breathe, can only watch the other soldier fall to his knees, drop his weapon and die. The other’s eyes are still on him, and his on the other, a last, feeble connection between them, when they should have shared their lives and loves and worries.

And something strange happens, because he has been scared since arriving here, setting a foot on a land fought about, but when he turns around, musket in hand, he has nothing left to lose – no family back home, and no lover to turn to. He raises his weapon and takes aim; what colour the man’s jacket has does not matter, he shoots him anyway, leaves him to die while he walks on, shoots another, shoots another, until one is quicker and shoots him first.  
The pain is nothing against the one from before, a dimmed down, broken down version of an excruciating ache, and he smiles through it, clenches his hands to fists and waits for the darkness to claim him, take him to the one he is yearning for.

 

(16)

Her sister is always around, even if she cannot see her, in every of her movements, in her eyes and smiles, in the way she dresses and in the way she talks. They have never met; she has only been born a year after her sister passed away, to heal the wound in her parents’ relationship, but there are pictures, there are stories, and there is a burning, fierce, aching love inside her, which fills her chest, runs in her veins and through her bones, is the reason her heart is beating and her eyes are seeing, her brain is thinking.

She tries to laugh twice as much as others, cry twice as much, love twice as much, because she has to live her sister’s life for her too, clutches the locket around her neck, which contains one of the few pictures they have of her, to her chest as often as she can and feels it grow warm in her hand, like another’s skin; with the warm metal against her chest, she can almost feel her sister’s hand on her shoulder, her lips on her cheek, and she knows she is loved in return.

 

(17)

She does not know whose funeral it is, but still she does not feel as if she was intruding, finding a place among the mourning men and women around her is easy, as if she was always meant to be there. The priest is saying pretty words, prayers of a religion she has never been part of, but they touch her still, make something inside her vibrate and swell with grief; she will never know the one they lay down in their shallow grave, will never hold his hand or hear his voice, and for a reason she cannot fathom, it feels like the worst thing imaginable, a life without a man she has never known.  

Next, someone breaks down, a delicate, dark-haired woman, who is beautiful even in her despair, and she crouches down quickly, puts a hand on her shoulder to give as much comfort as she can. It takes a moment until the other looks up through her lashes, which are heavy with tears, and she knows it’s his daughter, for she knows those bright eyes, dimmed with tears, the curve of her jaw and the shape of her lips, has seen them in a thousand dreams.  
And the woman stares back, as if not believing what she sees, then breathes out, “He sketched your face. Every day; he saw you in his sleep…”

The words touch something in her, some deeply hidden longing, which has been buried inside her ever since she can remember, and make it blossom and bloom, until she is sure that she won’t be able to forget about it for another second in her life. He was searching for her, like she was for him, but neither of them was fast enough, good enough, and the thought doubles the pain in her chest, triples it, until she can hardly breathe.  
His daughter is clinging to her as if they had known each other for a lifetime, and without thinking, she wraps her own arms around the other woman’s shaking form and pulls her close, tries to find as much as possible of him in her voice and warmth.

After the funeral, she stays, watches how her loved one’s friends speak of his goodness and grace, of his wit and offer condolences to his daughter, who accepts them silently and with tears in her eyes, and who she takes home afterwards, kisses on her doorstep; a kiss which does not belong to her, but to her father. She kisses back still, tears rolling down her cheeks and making her lips taste of salt and mourning, and buries a slender hand in her hair.  
It is not perfect, but when they fall into bed with their limbs tangled and tear tracks on both their cheeks, it is what they both need, a warm body to lose themselves in.

(When she wakes up the next morning, the cold light of another winter day shining through a window she does not know, she finds his features in her new lover’s face and knows she will not leave again.)

 

(18)

They put him in Thorin’s costume, the too large nose, the long-haired wig, the leather and fur and metal; and the second the last member of the costume department has stepped away, Richard feels himself weighed down, but less so by the heavy coat and unfamiliar armour than the weight of a thousand lives he has lived, or should have lived.  It's a strange feeling, but one he has felt before, at night when the rest of the world seemed asleep and he as if he was searching for something without knowing what for.  
He still doesn’t, but when his fingers brush over the soft furs, the cold silver buckles, he feels a little closer to the answer, as if he has taken a step out of a million; only that he doesn’t know if there are still a thousand to go or only a few.

A few more minutes there are people rushing about, making notes, marking bits and pieces which still need work, and then it’s done, the whole costume being peeled off piece by piece, leaving Richard feeling more naked and vulnerable than he can remember ever feeling. The others leave, in a hurry, because shooting is to start far too soon, always too soon, and there is still so much to be done and he stays behind, slowly dressing himself, until the door opens again.  
Richard turns around, his shirt only half-buttoned, the question if they’ve forgotten something dying on his lips when he sees the other.

He’s got a head full of curls and eyes as bright as the stars and as warm as the sun, a half-forgotten smile curling up his lips, and Richard finds he cannot breathe. In any other situation, with any other person, he would speak first, introduce himself, but now his body moves on its own volition, carries him to the other man, and it feels as if every inch he moved closer to him was worth a thousand steps (the other mirrors his actions, closes the door behind himself and stares at Richard with the same sense of wonder, of awe written in a million different ways across his face).  
It’s only when they are face to face that he stops, that _they_ stop, and Richard wants to take a moment to compose himself enough to touch the stranger, feel his skin against his own, find out if their hearts are beating in the same rhythm, like Richard is sure they are, and prepared to change if they aren’t; but the other is bolder, less patient, reaches out and touches four fingertips to Richard’s neck, and for a single moment of a hundred, the stranger seems to wear a myriad of faces instead of just one, all of them familiar and new at the same time.

“ _Oh…”_ It’s a soft sound which escapes from the other’s lips, soft and breathless, and without asking, Richard knows that, for the other, he is wearing different faces too. His hand moves on its own volition, reaching up to wrap his fingers around the stranger’s wrist, feeling a pulse, which matches his own, beating against his palm.  
“Hi”, he says, because it’s the first thing which comes to his mind, and because it doesn’t matter what he says, as long as he is talking. “Richard. I play Thorin.”  
The half-smile turns into a full one, so brilliant it almost blinds him, lighting up the stranger’s entire face. “Fíli. No, I mean Kíli. No wait. _Aidan_.”

The name fits the stranger, fits _Aidan_ , and Richard thinks he is smiling, beaming, because this feels like coming home after an eternity of being lost. “Aidan”, he repeats, tastes the sounds on his tongue, feels them tickle his lips and change the air around him, make it sweet and new and warm. He gently pries the other’s fingers from his neck, but keeps Aidan’s hand in his, their fingers intertwine and fit together perfectly, two pieces of a puzzle.  
“Do you maybe want to grab a cup of coffee?”, he asks, watches the smile on Aidan’s lips grow even brighter, if softer, more gentle as the other squeezes his hand, tilts his head.  
“Do you even have to ask?”

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> In case you want to say hi, send me a prompt, or tell me something nice, you can find me on Tumblr here:  
> [X](http://www.coloursflyaway.tumblr.com)


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